


it started with an ass slap

by architecture_in_f1ll0ry



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: M/M, SO, i have a lot of feelings about these two, just me my wine and these two idiots in sloppy love, no beta we die like men, this just happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23257228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry
Summary: Harrow and Viren just can't help themselves.
Relationships: Harrow/Viren (The Dragon Prince)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	it started with an ass slap

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to @gravitren and @discardedplans1 on twitter, whose thread about these two literally compelled me to drop everything and write this LMAO

This was becoming a bit of a problem.

It doesn't take much to set them off: Harrow brushing a careless hand across Viren’s back as he passes him in the hall; Viren accidentally catching his eye during dinner, cheeks flushing a pale pink; merely finding themselves alone in an empty room. There’s something completely alchemical to their connection: normally, Viren is somewhat stiff and humorless; his natural disposition is inclined to silent judgment, intellectual inquiry, and, when needed: unshakeable confidence in his abilities and ideas. It’s an ideal foil to Harrow’s easygoing humor, lighthearted nobility, and passionate devotion to justice, to kindness. Their union renders Viren pliant and subservient; Harrow’s soft edges hardening, sharpening, a refreshingly unforgiving surface for Viren to break himself against. 

Viren has lost count of the amount of times Harrow looks at him like this, a heady blend of excitement and greed and pure, filthy lust, which never fails to halt his breathing momentarily, a rush of heat subsuming his body as he rises from his seat and Harrow shuts and locks the door behind him. At some point, this will become ridiculous, the way their bodies are irresistibly drawn to each other like magnets, rendering any obstacle frivolous and meaningless--Viren gasps a laugh as Harrow sweeps his work aside to lower him to the table--but for right now, right now, there is nothing but the relief of touch, of wet, open mouths, the grasping clutch and desperate grind of hips. 

The first time, Harrow almost wrote off as a joke.

He always knew that Viren loved him--everyone did--and idolized him, to an extent. He was used to adoration and adulation; he was born into and raised royalty, with a personality that most were drawn to, fell in love with easily. Though a few years older, it was no surprise that Viren, only son to aging, distant parents who begrudged his magical gifts, would want to ingratiate himself to a young prince who saw his talent for what it was: invaluable. Fascinating. Capable of building a bridge between human foible and weakness and elemental, cosmological greatness. Everything in moderation, of course, but how often had his mother and father impressed upon him the importance of trusting his own intuition, the certainty of his heart? And his heart told him that Viren was _his_ , in a way that the other flattering figures of the royal court were not; they were friendly leeches, predictable instruments of the realm. Viren did not blather on about how Harrow’s parents were the kingdom’s saviors, make empty promises about his devotion, or pretend to be anything other than exactly who he was. He told Harrow the truth when he asked for it and also when he didn’t, he rolled his eyes when Harrow told a bad joke, which only made Harrow laugh harder, he spoke with a hushed, rambling passion for the deeper mysteries of the universe that Harrow did not fully understand but loved to hear about. His piercing grey gaze and gentle hands when Harrow had injured himself training and ferocious anger when Harrow, or the kingdom at large, was threatened. The way his mouth softened when he murmured “My Prince?” His prominent, expressive eyebrows. His quiet command of any conversation, when he wanted it. 

Harrow didn’t know what had possessed him to do it. In retrospect, he’s damn glad he did. Maybe it was his heady victory; a simple training sequence that he’d finally mastered, muscles sore and aching beneath the punishing summer sun. He’d long become accustomed to Viren’s quiet presence at these sessions, always with a book, looking irritatingly unaffected, as always, by the day’s heat. It drove Harrow pleasantly crazy, Viren’s ability to look and seem completely put together, immune to the petty annoyances of humanity, like sweat and weird hair days and emotional instability. Glancing up when Harrow stood before him, blocking the sunlight, shirtless and drenched with sweat, pulling his now shoulder-length locks into a high ponytail. Then glancing back down, shutting his book and rising to stand.

“I guess congratulations are in order.” He’s well aware that Harrow has been trying to master this particular offensive combination, but trust him to playfully minimize it. It doesn’t quite work, though, because even he can’t hide the blush in his cheeks, and it’s so unexpected and thrilling and off-putting Harrow has to blink a few times as he gathers his words.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He tilts his head searchingly to meet Viren’s eyes, which seem to have trouble finding his. He grins when they finally do. “Alright there, friend?”

Harrow doesn’t think Viren means to be ogling him this brazenly, but the way his gaze rakes across Harrow’s chest, stomach, and then snaps back up is absolutely fascinating. He doesn’t bother trying to make it look like his eyes have settled on anything but Viren’s mouth as he responds.

“I’m fine. I think you should probably hydrate, though.” Viren jabs a thumb towards the servants standing nearby, bearing cold drinks, giving the Prince and his best friend their privacy. “I’ll be back.”

“Thanks,” Harrow says, heart drumming a weird beat when Viren given him a half smile in response, as if to say, _duh,_ and then his hand is taking on a life of its own, trailing after Viren to connect solidly with his behind in a resounding smack. Viren jumps, releasing a rather embarrassing sound, somewhere between a yelp and a gasp, turning to shoot Harrow a bewildered look, face pink.

_“Prince Harrow!”_ he mouths, eyes darting sideways, in the direction of the servants who are now visibly trying not to laugh. Harrow feels somewhat contrite, a little turned on, and incredibly interested in doing it again, when they’re somewhere less public. How would Viren react then? 

“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” he replies with a sheepish, playful smile, and can’t help but laugh when Viren shoots him a glare before turning once again to head in the servants’ direction. When he comes back, there’s a noticeable new gleam in his eye, one that sends a wicked shiver down Harrow’s spine as he accepts the offered glass, fingers brushing as it’s exchanged. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Viren, but they both know that something has shifted permanently; a new plateau in their relationship that will irrevocably change them both, a transformation that they’ve been building toward for quite some time.

Later that night, after a rather awkward family dinner, the both of them trying to act normal, they are finally free to retire to Harrow’s chambers, and Viren produces a bottle out of nowhere.

“You really _are_ a wizard,” Harrow sighs gratefully, holding out his hands greedily, giving Viren a pout when the bottle is pulled out of reach. 

“The term is mage,” Viren snorts, giving Harrow that look that he loves and hates so much, like he's a lovable idiot. It’s one that makes Harrow feel exposed and cared for at the same time, and also, on bad days, sets his teeth on edge, makes him want to lash out and forcefully remind Viren of his place. Tonight, it just makes him itch to close the distance between them, an impulse so strong and so sudden that he has to swallow against a rush of saliva, clench his fists at his sides. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Harrow replies weakly, turning to grab two tumblers, grateful to have something to do. Sometimes he feels like Viren is staring into his soul. The room falls silent as Viren pours, the sloshing of the liquid seeming unnaturally loud. Harrow is hyper-aware of everything: the sensation of the cool glass in his hand, the gentle breeze wafting in from the open window, pulling goosebumps to the surface of his arms, or maybe that’s Viren right beside him and the way Harrow can hear him swallow, the way he can’t help but turn and watch as he drinks, throat bobbing. Viren’s skin is so smooth, and bears a hint of tan, which has darkened the gentle smattering of freckles on his nose. Viren’s eyelashes are long, Harrow notes absently, and takes a generous sip at the very moment Viren freezes, feeling Harrow’s eyes on him. 

“What’s going on with you?” Viren demands quietly, and Harrow raises his eyebrows, feigning innocence as he lowers his glass. His voice is even, but his left leg is bouncing, a tell that Harrow knows so well that it ignites a powerful swell of affection in his chest, and he’s suddenly so sure of this, of what is happening, that he nearly laughs out loud. He could drag this out--it would certainly be fun--but he realizes, abruptly, he doesn’t particularly want to. 

He downs the rest of his drink, leans over to deposit the empty glass on the nearest table, and then turns to face Viren on the couch, placing a quelling hand on his restless leg. Viren’s eyes dart down to his hand, mouth falling open in shock before he swiftly closes it.

“So, uh,” Harrow begins, then laughs, deciding to abandon speech for the moment. He leans in to brush his lips over Viren’s cheek, squeezing Viren’s knee, sliding his hand further upwards to then squeeze his thigh. When Viren releases a shaky breath, but doesn’t pull away, Harrow drops a gentle kiss onto his cheek, and then another, closer to his temple, and then another, near his jaw. 

“H-Harrow,” Viren whispers, glass thunking to the floor. Neither of them move to right it, unconcerned with the spilled liquor. His hand clenches in Harrow’s robe, and then he’s angling his head, catching Harrow’s lips in a kiss that pulls moans from them both, first slow and sweet, a gentle exploration, before Harrow growls, sliding a hand into Viren’s hair, clutching it tightly. Viren gasps at the rough treatment, curling a hand around Harrow’s neck and licking into his mouth, breath coming heavy and fast. Harrow’s head is spinning as he tastes Viren for the first time, finally, and pushes against him somewhat questioningly, delighted when Viren responds immediately, lowering himself and pulling Harrow against him until they’re settled against each other, never breaking the kiss. This feels both unbelievable and inevitable; their previous intimacy only paving the way for this thrilling newness, the heady rush of their hasty undressing, yearning for everything all at once, hands encircling stiff cocks and stroking, barely able to conceal their increasingly desperate sounds as they rut against each other, coming messily and stumbling over to Harrow’s bed with dazed giggles only to do it again, and again, and again. 

That was the first time, nearly three months ago, and their desire has only grown exponentially since then, all-consuming and undeniable. Harrow does his duty and courts the various noble daughters of the surrounding provinces, per his parents’ wishes, and Viren pretends not to notice, not to judge these simpering women who don’t know, can’t possibly understand the way Harrow likes to be teased, the way he sucks his lower lip into his teeth when he’s teetering on the edge of orgasm, the way he will sometimes look at Viren as if he wants to _shove_ him to his knees and--it’s an impulse he hasn’t acted on but one that Viren recognizes, knows will come out one day, when he’s pushed him just a bit too far, and he has to be careful about when he allows himself to daydream about it for the immediate physical reaction it inspires. Harrow will marry one of these women someday, Viren knows, and he will mourn, but that day is not today, and Viren is grateful. 

Grateful for this, for the fear that spikes through him that someone might find them, and the way that fear melts into utter submission when Harrow fists his hand in the front of Viren’s robes and pulls him close to bite his upper lip, hard, shoving him gently against the table and tracing a hand down his chest, his stomach, slipping beneath to open his pants just enough to draw out his cock, already hard and leaking. Viren bites back a groan, hands clenched on Harrow’s shoulders, flushed red.

“Aren’t you supposed to be--” he begins, but cuts himself off abruptly when Harrow shoots him a quelling glare, opening his mouth to swallow him down with startling efficiency. “Fuck, Harrow, fuck, _fuck._ ”

Harrow chuckles low, pulling off slowly and pressing a finger against Viren’s lips. “Shh.” And then he’s back to work, clutching at Viren’s hips as he bobs, humming contentedly. They both freeze when they hear a voice outside the door.

“Has anyone seen the prince?” It’s Harrow’s mother, sounding peevish, and their eyes meet in momentary panic as whichever members of the court accompany her offer similarly confused responses. Their footsteps fade quickly, thankfully, and Viren can’t stop a somewhat explosive sigh when it’s quiet again, torn between the horror of having his cock so far down the prince’s throat where they could easily be discovered and the absolute thrill of having his cock so far down the prince’s throat where they could easily be discovered. 

“I’m gonna--!” he barely manages to gasp before his hips jerk, orgasm rocketing through him as he stiffens, covering his mouth to groan helplessly into his palm. Harrow moans around him, swallowing, then rises up with a satisfied smirk, affixing his mouth to Viren’s in a kiss so filthy it makes his toes curl, tasting himself on Harrow’s tongue. He knows they’re running out of time but he can’t help it, he has to, has to reach into Harrow’s pants to curl his hand around his gorgeous length, pumping steadily as Harrow grunts quietly above him, eyes fluttering shut. He’s close, Viren can tell, and he sits up more, needing to be closer, wishing they could be naked, skin pressed against bare skin. For now, this will have to do: Harrow’s harsh breaths against Viren’s ear, hands braced on either side of him as he’s taken apart, and Viren pulling back to watch hungrily as Harrow’s mouth parts in a silent cry, his thrusts growing frenzied as he comes. Viren groans as the prince releases jet after jet of hot cum against Viren’s own softening cock and balls, surging up for another consuming kiss, heart racing. He chuckles when Harrow slumps against him, spent, playfully nipping his ear. 

“What am I going to do with you, Viren?” he groans quietly, and Viren snorts, angling his neck further, feeling boneless, blissful. Harrow accepts the invitation, sucking _hard_ at a patch of skin, soothing it with his tongue. They’ve never talked openly about it, but he already knows how much Viren loves to be marked, to be claimed. 

_Whatever you want._ Viren clenches his jaw shut so he doesn’t say anything reckless. “I’ll remind you that _you_ assaulted _me_ ,” he teases. Harrow gives him another bite, laughing, before he straightens, face beaming, his ponytail in disarray. 

“Fair point.” They dress quickly, smoothing robes over the damp evidence of their brief assignation, and just in time. A brisk knock makes them both jump, exchange a startled look, and then resume their original positions; Viren quickly stoops to retrieve his papers and Harrow fixes his hair, adjusts his crown.

“Prince Harrow? Are you in there?” 

“Yes, one moment!” Harrow calls out, then bends to murmur in Viren’s ear. “Come to my room tonight.”

“Harrow, you are _asking_ for us to get caught,” Viren sighs, watching Harrow stride purposefully to the door. When the prince turns and grins, sticking out a naughty tongue, Viren can’t help but smile back, shaking his head, even as his heart flutters almost painfully in his chest. 

_“I. Don’t. Care.”_ Harrow mouths, and then he’s gone, opening the door and greeting the seeking manservant jovially, clapping him on the shoulder. The room’s temperature seems to dip in his absence, as always, but Viren just bites the inside of his cheek as he returns to his work, every vein alight and pulsing with _Harrow, Harrow, Harrow._

This was definitely becoming a bit of a problem. But if Harrow didn’t care, then neither did he. 


End file.
